by Graham Johns
So it was in Nether-Staining. Having enthusiastically taken control of their own borders, people suddenly started spotting potential issues and also noted that this new dawn meant that the main population of their tiny fledgling nation was actually the local Swaledale sheep, which led to a degree of suspicion emanating from certain idiotic quarters about when the majority would usurp their human captors. Also, it became clear that they needed to be able to trade externally as the people of the parish could not possibly survive on lamb and subsistence crops alone, although they would have an enviable supply of woolly jumpers, that’s for sure! The list of negatives grew on a daily, if not hourly, basis.
“I’m really not sure about the wisdom of having so many sheep,” Mick commented to Gordon, who was distributing water to his part of the larger flock while Mick looked on. It was yet another beautiful day and the hillside took on a momentous emerald hue.
Gordon sighed to himself before delivering a reply, “Quit chelping on about the sheep, will you?”
Mick took heed of his friend’s instruction and changed tack, “Are you going to the village meeting later? I hear we’ve got to elect a Prime Minister and decide on important issues like currency, trade, immigration and passports. We also have to decide what we’re going to call ourselves now we’re not British anymore.”
“I can barely contain my lack of excitement, Michael. I’m on the front line out here on the western border, I worry that the extremities of our new republic will be forgotten once the power hungry few start on their mission.” Gordon didn’t do worried overly often, he tended to do heated and/or angry. This was not lost upon Mick, who was extremely perceptive to mood swings, being supremely skilled in the arts of seducing local women.
“Apparently, we can’t even technically be from Yorkshire anymore either.” Mick’s comment hung briefly in the air before it drifted off on the breeze into the ether. Gordon uttered a sound that wasn’t dissimilar to a motorbike revving up before the engine died with a quiet splutter, he shook his head and continued with his task.
***
Deep in the bowels of Westminster once more, in the same darkened room we witnessed previously, a meeting was once again in progress. A secret meeting. Thank goodness there were a couple of flies who were currently perched silently on the wall or we wouldn’t have a clue what was being discussed.
“I gave you an ultimatum, yet it seems these villagers keep trying to outmanoeuvre you. So bearing in mind that there are ten million reasons for each of you to get this job done, when do I get my land?” the American asked with what would probably have been placed as a New York accent, had anyone present been an expert listener. No one could quite see his face or head, but they did notice that he was waving rather large hands around as he talked.
The lady from the south replied with somewhat less confidence than she had before, “Please try to be assured that we will deliver on this for you. We’ll give you a date when you can stage the cutting of the first sod within a week. You have my guarantee.”
The American, making no reply, simply rose in amongst the shadows and left the room on quiet tip toes.
“He mutht have really thmall feet, the thound of him leaving wath akin to a mouthe,” whispered our known participant.
“Yes, and very large hands by the way he was waving them around,” said another lady.
“So, does anyone know how we are going to get around the latest move of this ridiculously irritating village in such a short timeline?” the leading lady enquired.
“Can’t we just ignore them?” the Lancastrian man asked in an irritable fashion. “Let’s just tell him to move in and start.”
“I think that might be interpreted as an act of war somehow, the international community would probably not be amused,” replied a Birmingham male.
“At least we know the Americans would be on our side!” said the Kentish man. “He seems to have the Americans in his pocket. Who is he though?”
“You don’t know him, I’m sure. Don’t we have anything we can use against this rabble?” asked the leading lady.
“There might be thomething which hath only jutht come to my attention,” Maurice replied.
“Well, then get out there and use it. Meeting adjourned,” said the lady with finality.
***
That evening’s village meeting of Nether-Staining was held on the village green as it was the only place which could accommodate the whole village without involving a church donation. The entire population, including children and teenagers, had turned out for this event, not wishing to miss something memorable in their own backyard that they could talk about for years to come. Conveniently, it enabled the ducks of the village pond to observe matters, for they were residents too and it seemed a little unfair to expect them to waddle all of the way to somewhere else. Given the lack of walls inside the boundaries of the village, there were also a number of sheep milling about, trimming the verges as they went, another bonus of recent change. Maurice Bickerdyke had bravely attended and was distributing leaflets extolling the virtues of the new nation, which he extracted from a shiny metal case in handfuls wearing a rather flashy, sparkly, silver glove, which complemented Bob’s sequins nicely. He tried to ensure he gave one to everyone present, and they almost all accepted, wafting around the lovely smell of freshly printed paper that is admired the world over as he went about his work. Only Mick or Gordon didn’t care for such papery smells, in Gordon’s case you just couldn’t beat the smell of damp sheep whereas Mick delighted in the smell of damp woman. Neither did they care for Maurice and his greasy ways so they gave him and his leaflets a wide berth.
A man was currently stood atop a small dais made from half a dozen bales of hay covered in a blue tarpaulin sheet and was chattering away into a microphone.
“Does-anyone-wish-to-stand-against-Bob-Roberts-for-the-position-of-Prime-Minister-of-the-Republic-of-Nether-Staining?” Roderick Barrington asked his audience. Being an antique dealer and occasional auctioneer, he seemed the obvious choice to orate proceedings. Unfortunately, Roddy often forgot himself and spoke his words extremely fast so that only the most highly attuned could pick up his meaning. You were lucky to get hyphens. Roddy retrieved his monocle from his maroon velvet waistcoat, put it to his bad eye and scanned the assembly now gathered eagerly before him.
Nobody raised their hands and Bob clapped his hands together with delight before remembering himself and moved to take the microphone, although not fast enough.
“Motion-carried,” sped on Roddy, “and-now-for-post-of-deputy-Prime-Minister. Any-offers?”
You were lucky to get punctuation in the sentence as well.
“Baa!” said one of the sheep.
“Anyone-else?” Roddy asked. No volunteers came forward.
“Motion-carried, does-anyone-have-a-name-for-that-sheep?”
“Tufty McTuftykins!” some wag called out, and before you could say “Which imbecile thought that was a good way to start a new country?” it was written into the continuing folklore of the village.
“Motion-carried.”
Bob had by now clambered up the bales and wrestled the microphone from Roddy and most people breathed a sigh of relief because they could finally reset their ears to normal speed and stop staring at him in the hope that they might lip read. A few murmurs along the lines of “Tweed-wearing scrote” or “Fast-Forward-git” were heard, more hyphens. Bob momentarily groomed his beard with his free hand. No heed had been taken of the local saying that people with beards (much like men with hats) just can’t be trusted.
“Friends, thank you for choosing me as your new Prime Minister, I shall choose a cabinet forthwith and we will soon have some decisions made and have concrete plans for our constitution and whatnot. So do please keep your eye on the village noticeboard – sorry, I mean national noticeboard – outside the Dog & Duck for updates. Please take the time to digest the leaflets which Mr. Bickerdyke is distributing to you all as it will explain more items in detail. I
trust that we will deliver to your expectations and enable a successful new nation which will look after its own borders!”
With that, Bob descended from the dais and, despite living above the Dog & Duck just over the road, got into a brand new black Jaguar and drove back to the pub. This impressed the villagers wholeheartedly as you could always believe in a man with a Jag…or was that just urban myth?
With the meeting, thankfully brief, over and done with, there were a large number of rather confused looks amongst the villagers, some of whom were expecting a decent day out and had brought a picnic. Roy’s Burger Van was only just getting fired up to provide saturated fats to the masses. The general consensus of folks seemed to be that as people had gone to the effort of stacking some bales and covering them in a tarpaulin, they may as well stay and have a party. This meant that the Dog & Duck did a roaring trade for the rest of the day, which pleased Bob no end, and Roy shifted plenty of greasy delights which pleased Roy no end. Anticipating the chaos to come after such a diet, the sheep wisely made themselves scarce and the ducks ceased to quack.
***
The morning after the night before dawned quietly on the fledgling nation. Many of the partygoers hadn’t reached their beds until after three of the clock of the morning, were still asleep and would be nursing hangovers, and maybe dodgy stomachs, soon enough. The exception to this was Verity Smythe, the aged local spinster, who had long been a vegan teetotaller. Verity was just about to amble around the parish to walk her cat, Tiddles, in the early morning light. Yes, you read that right, it isn’t everywhere that has an eccentric who walks their cat is it? Tiddles didn’t much care for being walked on a leash and certainly wouldn’t be pooing to order, but put up with the shame of it all in return for all the treats she could manage both en route and when they got back home.
Anyway, Verity was surprised to find a notice stuck to the lamppost just by her garden gate. Her eyes zeroed in down either side of her hook nose. On it was a photocopy of a birth certificate of one Gordon Lancaster Shepherd. The date of birth appeared hidden for data protection reasons but what was clear to anyone who had an ability to read, namely the majority of the villagers, was that Gordon Lancaster Shepherd’s birth was registered in the sub-district of Preston, Lancashire. It was also rather clear that there was no father named on the birth certificate, only a mother.
Verity read with interest while Tiddles sat on the roof of a nearby car, casually pawing at the long leash. She then filed this most interesting of news items in her handbag for later use and continued on her walk, noting that numerous other copies were stuck to various surfaces of the village environs. Nether-Staining, it seemed, had been tainted this very morning. For completeness, Tiddles didn’t give a hoot and just wanted to breakfast on a can of tuna, thanks very much.
***
Interestingly, nobody else in the village noticed the birth certificate until the next day, mainly because most of them were too unwell to leave their houses, and those that did were suffering with double vision or just couldn’t be bothered reading what they assumed was a notice about a missing cat or dog. There was no point getting involved in such locating activity, especially since the local walls had all been taken down and appropriated for elsewhere.
In short, there were quite a few selfish folk around.
It was only on the following day when the first cabinet meeting took place that anyone thought to mention the offending item at all, and that person was the meddlesome Verity, who had left Tiddles at home while she observed proceedings, which were taking place in the village hall.
The village hall was a simple, squat, brick building with an open space just large enough for a badminton court inside. The floor was of the laminated wooden variety and had a court permanently marked out. Today, however, it was set out with a semi-circle of tables and chairs, and a moveable blackboard. Verity was seated by herself (either because she smelt just a little of cats or, more likely, because nobody else was interested in proceedings) in a row of half a dozen plastic garden chairs which had been thoughtfully provided for onlookers.
The blackboard already had a number of notes on it and read as follows:
Passport – to be White
Currency – English Pounds Sterling
Trade – with the UK, primarily Yorkshire
Foreign Affairs – seek to be in EU?
Human Rights – maintain existing standards (find out what they are)
Sheep Rights – improve existing standards (find out what they are)
Health – no hospital or doctor – links with Yorkshire needed
Education – ensure the curriculum includes Yorkshire and Nether-Staining history (establish the correct versions of the truth)
Bob had arranged his government very simply by appointing a minimal number of cronies who had a passing interest in various things. Nether-Staining now had ministers for Defence, Trade, Foreign Affairs, Culture, Environment, Agriculture, Justice, Education, Health and Finance. Being a small village though, and with many of these jobs not expected to take up an inordinate amount of anyone’s time, the cabinet amounted to the following:
Bob Roberts : Prime Minister and also minister for Finance, Trade, Justice, Defence, Foreign Affairs.
Tufty McTuftykins : Deputy Prime Minister – more of a ceremonial mascot-like post but with defined links to Agriculture.
Neil Downes : Minister for Culture, Agriculture and the Environment.
Angela Sharp : Minister for Education and Health (and Women’s Rights parenthetically speaking – a subject that, had Mick been present for the meeting, he was all for as women should all have rights to him, or rather he should have optional rights to them).
Bob basically farmed out the stuff he wasn’t overly bothered with. He was pleased with the value the team had added from the first meeting and was just in the process of requesting that Angela and Neil prepare a notice for the national noticeboard when Verity piped up.
“Excuse me, Prime Minister!” she piped with miserly authority.
Bob was slightly shocked by the interruption as he had forgotten there was anyone else there, and you forgot Verity at your peril, “Yes?”
“I have a question about your Human Rights note.”
“Go on…”
“Are we banning anyone who is not from Yorkshire from living in our new country as per previous talk?”
Everyone knew Verity either by reputation or in person and they knew she could be a vindictive cow when she wanted to be. There were slightly non-committal nods from the Homo sapiens around the table – as per politicians the world over. There’s nothing like waiting to see who says what before you commit yourself is there?
Verity seemed a little dissatisfied with the response but accepted it as an assent, “Very well, in that case, I think we have someone we may need to eject from our new nation.”
She thrust the piece of paper she had acquired from the lamppost the previous day onto the table for all to see. It took a few moments for them all to digest it, in Tufty’s case, almost literally. There was not a small degree of shock on their faces as they all knew a Gordon Shepherd, although not necessarily a Gordon Lancaster Shepherd.
“The government acknowledges that Verity Smythe has presented evidence regarding the rights of another citizen of Nether-Staining to live in Nether-Staining and we shall seek further information before making a final decision. Thank you. Meeting closed,” Bob said before hammering a rather small gavel on the table top.
CHAPTER 13
BIGOTRY’S DESPICABLE,
BIGOTS ARE ALL SCUM,
NOW GET THE HELL OUT OF OUR SIGHT,
OR WE’LL KICK YOU UP THE BUM!
There was a loud knocking at the farmhouse kitchen door. The door was solid wood so you had to want to hear the knocking, which Gordon didn’t. The knocking became louder and more insistent until even Selina became slightly irked by it and decided to answer the door. Mick was standing by to greet her with an old metal iron in hand, long
since last-used for laundry duties, and a sheepish look on his face. He’d apparently opted for something with more resonance in his knocking and had left a dent in the door.
“Erm, morning Selina, sorry about the door, if you send the bill to my address I will happily cover the repair cost,” Mick said quickly, and before Selina had chance to question his home address he added, “is Gordon up yet?”
Selina almost fried a circuit and was tempted to throw Mick onto the compost heap for his sins but, after completing a detailed options analysis, decided to calm down and said, “Yes, he’s currently making his toilet so you might want to wait a while out of doors. He’s been explicit that I shouldn’t let you in the house after a burning incident. I think I’ll let you tell him about the damage to the door.”
Mick thought better of fisticuffs to gain himself entry into the Shepherd enclave as these robots could be testy subjects and, after replacing the iron in the barn where he’d found it, decided to rest on a nearby gatepost. Gordon emerged twenty minutes later looking rather unkempt. His chin had apparently not been shaved for some days. Nigel was hot on his heels and jumped up onto Mick by way of greeting. Mick gleefully scratched behind his ears and grinned widely.
“Gordon! Top of this fine morning to you! You took ages in the bathroom there!” Mick said cheerily.
“I was reading the Herald. It might be the last copy they’ll allow. What do you want at this early hour?” Gordon asked rather bluntly.
Mick pressed on with his purpose, “I was just leaving Betty Crump’s place this morning when I noted this sticking to a lamppost.”
Mick handed Gordon a piece of paper, the contents of which we already know. Gordon barely glanced at it. “So?”
“So, it appears to show that you are not of these parts, Gordon! Is it true?” Mick was getting just a touch exasperated.
“What does any of it matter? We all just need to concentrate on our own lives and not worry about the other stuff really, don’t we?”
